Mid Sweet Talk
by Lee's Thumb
Summary: Because being torn forever isn't okay. Featuring a runaway, a finder, a keeper, a thinker, a lover, and an interpreter. The last five are OCs. You have been warned. It also features no one in love with anyone else. Maybe.


Chapter 1: Too Many Running Metaphors

First fanfiction in a long time. Review if you want to. Flames would be random, but toasty, I guess.

B-wair - half-baked OCs and un-beta'd brain-spooge ahead. You have been warned.

* * *

One little detail could ruin everything about a good thing. Like when the soles of your favorite pair of shoes finally rub off. Well, the only way to stop that would be to stop wearing them, but then, you know, that'd totally ruin the point of getting the shoes in the first place. Or when a waiter sets a really gorgeous banana-split right in front of you, the ones where the whipped cream swirls perfectly around the three shiny maraschinos, not a single dent in the creases of cream or smear of ice-cream outside the frosty bowl. Too pretty to eat, right? But, then, that's just the point - you're going to have to eat it or that's a sad waste of money right there. It's awful that you have to do it in the first place, but it's natural. In the end, it's all really natural. Like a run on the beach. Sand's getting in your running shoes, but that's the best way to run, right? 

... Yes, that makes perfect sense.

---

He could tell when the guy sat down that their last prospective band member was dying. It wasn't just the sunken cheeks, or the way he winced like an old war veteran when he sat, the ragged clothes or dull yellow hair. There wasn't a single person who couldn't tell that from the outside, the guy was slowly crumpling, drying, shriveling into a raisin of a human being. But you had to wait a while, slowly let the him percolate into a settled layer of mashed up psyche, in order to see how dead he was. There was a look to his face, something young and ancient, something cataclysmic about the stark sorrow and optimism in his eyes. Nothing human could survive that.

Then the new guy smiled, and he wondered if he hadn't been hallucinating, daydreaming, but he wasn't, he _couldn't_ have been just daydreaming his first impression. The smile was weak, sure, but it banished the age from his whole body. Still seemed a little hungry and run down, but it was apples to oranges or some shit like that. Someone had obviously plugged in the new guy's (figurative) defibrillator. "Soooo," the new guy dragged out, "I'm here about your advertisement for a violinist?" The words were in precisely measured balance against each other, accented between American Basic and something distinctly European, and something else a little more exotic that he couldn't place.

The interviewer realized his mouth had opened just a crack. Two weeks, coming to the same club, same upstairs room splashed with oil-black graffiti and smelling faintly of old pizza that clouds of Lysol barely managed to cover, with teeth-rattling vibrations of the bass coming from two floors down; fifteen applicants, each in varying states of dress and undress and confidence and desperation, with metaphorical bitchslaps at the ready (the last guy had been a real shitface in more ways than one), and when he finally got someone relatively _normal_, he had nothing to say. Couldn't even think of how to start.

He had to shake himself. Just another interview. Go with it, man. He matched the new guy's smile with a wide one of his own, reached over with a fully tattooed right hand for a handshake. "Yep. Name's Derek. You're trying out for the best band in the fucking world."

"Good to hear." The other guy took his hand with a grip that belied his general state of scruffiness. "When's your first platinum record?"

"Soon. As soon as we get a good fiddle, anyway." Derek broke away from the shake to yank his clear neon green clipboard from a heavily stained and permanent markered backpack. He felt so... _organized_ with the clipboard in his hand, a quality that he had never been associated with. Cass had just about clobbered the word into his brain - awesome music with an already dedicated fanbase wasn't enough for those platinums. If he had to listen to the exact way she forced the syllables of "professional" through her teeth one more time, he had sworn to cut someone.

Not, er, literally.

Despite the overwhelming odds (during which he managed to get away with a inch of trash at the bottom of his bag), he had conducted the past interviews with enough professionalism to make any Wal-Mart recruiter proud. He had to keep himself from basking in the aura of his supreme, grown-up note-taking skill. Go responsibility. Grabbing a pen from behind his ear, he started taking notes. "Name?"

The other guy opened his mouth, closed it, frowned, bit his lip, then smiled again. "Kaede. Kaede Rhinehardt."

"Kuh-ay-day?" He frowned and wrote down the "K". He was pretty sure about that part. "How do you spell that shit?"

Before Derek had a chance to start playing Hangman with the rest of the letters, Kaede's fingers were over the top of the clipboard and pressing down a sticky note with the correct spelling onto the clip of the clipboard. The "T" had a strange flourish to it. "Japanese first name," Kaede quickly supplied to the look aimed at him. When it persisted, he shrugged. "I get that question a lot."

Derek raised an eyebrow, then started to laugh. This guy was different. At least the Japanese thing explained the third accent. "All right. But, um, you care if I call you something else? I don't want to butcher your name or anything." He immediately cringed. Awkward. Well, it _was_ the truth. Names were serious business.

Kaede, on the other hand, only smiled in response, thoughtful. "I get that. In fact, it might be better for me."

"You in trouble with the law or something? 'Cause, you know, that'd sort of be a problem with our band. We try to keep things semi-legal."

"Comforting." Kaede laughed a little. Nice laugh, a phrase that Derek had never used for another guy and would never again, never ever _ever_ again. "No, just my family."

"Runaway?"

"Sort of. Not young enough to be a runaway, though."

"How old?" Derek asked, trying to stay on track.

"As of last week, nineteen."

"What?" He studied at his interviewee with surprise. It must have been the whole homeless bum look Kaede had going against him; he had looked anywhere between thirty and fossil-like. Now that Derek noticed the lack of wrinkles and liver spots, the violinist's face did look a little less than legal.

"Yeah. I need a shower."

"I'm assuming you're skipping the whole college deal?"

"For now, sure."

"Overachiever."

"Whatever."

Derek hid a grin. Quick answers, but neither automatic nor prepared in the least. Even the "whatever" oozed charisma. Cass'd like this guy. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Rashomon. Know it?"

Derek shook his head.

"Good movie. Rent it sometime."

"Scout's honor, I will. Favorite food?"

"Sweet tooth, but I'd probably like anything. Nothing bitter, though."

... Was this guy a girl or what? Derek wondered if he wasn't getting jerked around a little. "Okay, skipping over this page."

"Why?"

"Girl's page. What's your favorite color, flower, episode of _Friends_, book, candy, so on."

Kaede raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"It's endearing. Maybe."

"Right."

"So, we'll be moving right along," Derek continued, scratching at his ginger head; then he added with a look of faint alarm, "unless, of course, you'd like a date with me."

The eyebrow lowered a touch, followed by a grin. "I sense you would be less than willing."

"Damn straight. Next page is the important stuff, anyway. Favorite music genre?"

"Most of them."

"Them's cheatin' words."

Kaede laughed comfortably. "I'm serious, though. I'd let you check my mp3 player if I had one."

"You don't?"

"Ipod-less."

"Dude. Sorry."

"I get by."

"Favorite song?"

"Are we talking about all genres?"

"If you want. I've got enough time for a top ten list."

"No need. Right now, it's _Clair de Lune_ and _Hide and Go Seek_."

"Interesting tastes."

"I think I'm going to get tired of Imogen Heap if I hear that song too much." A melodramatic sigh.

"At least you've got enough patience to enjoy it. I never got a chance."

"That is a strange definition of patience."

"Mmmm. Anything else?"

"I like most emo-punk, actually."

"Really?"

"Nope." Laughter from both ends this time. "To be fair, though, _the Black Parade_ was pretty good."

"Nothing like Queen for those warm fuzzies." Raking Kaede's posture, Derek found only nonchalance, honesty. Cool as sitting under the AC at the movie theater. "License?"

Kaede snapped out of his detached gaze at the ceiling for a split second. "For what?"

Derek blinked. "Driving. Driver's license."

"Uuuuuh... I don't have one." He inclined his head, worry flitting across his face. "I hope that's not a problem."

"Not really." Weird, weird guy. "How did you get here?"

"I walked."

Walked? "Where'd you come from?"

"Japan," Kaede answered, without skipping a beat. "Where else could I get away with a first name like that?"

Choosing to ignore the blatant tangent against his instinct, Derek commented, "Dude, wow. Running away from your country. Intense."

"Thanks."

"Any problems with, like, citizenship or anything? 'Cause we kind of need you. You know. Around."

For the first time since the interview started (an amazingly short time, actually), Kaede outright froze, straightened in his seat, and, for a brief moment, averted his hazel gaze towards the coffee-colored stains splashed under their shoes. Then he snapped to back to attention, smiling again. "Don't worry about that. I'll be here."

"You sure?" Visas had a limit, didn't they?

"Certain." By this time, Kaede appeared to have regained control over his momentary lapse in control, sliding back down into another comfortable slouch. The look in the boy's eyes, however, promised a fairly violent and bloody end to the interview if it didn't move along soon.

Derek had never been promised an excruciating death by eye contact before, but now did not seem like the best time to press his luck. He elected not to pursue the subject. A first. "When did you get here?"

"Two weeks ago."

"When," Derek asked, tone bone-dry, "was your last good meal?"

A wry smirk. "Two weeks ago. Well, more like two weeks and one day."

"Better not let Kate get a look at you then, god forbid that Cass even hear about this interview," Derek shot back, leaning onto the back legs of the chair, the corners of his mouth twitching as he forbade himself to smirk. "If need be, this talk _never happened_."

"Why not?"

"Major maternal instincts, man."

He shrugged. "I wouldn't mind being fed."

"No, seriously. Think less T.L.C., more homicidal. 'Specially when it comes to Cass, actually," he added after a moment of deliberation.

Kaede's head inclined a bit, curiously. "Is that right?"

"Dude, you don't even know." He clapped the clipboard onto the table and leaned his elbows onto it. "Give the girls a chance and they will _fuck your shit up_. Sure they'll feed you, but then they will wash you, and even if you think you want that, _you don't_," he emphasized with what he hoped was an impressive stare, "and they might even start putting their _clothes_ on you. Nothing can help you if they decide to go shopping for more."

Heavy silence. "You said _their_ clothes." Kaede pointed out, voice casual and painfully matter-of-fact.

"I know." With a dramatic sigh, Derek buried his face in his hands. "Mary-Jane and Kate are recovering J-pop addicts." When Derek looked back up, Kaede was staring at him, apparently puzzled. "Comes from Japan," Derek clarified, after some hesitation. "Japanese pop. Only place in the world where cross-dressing attracts the opposite sex."

"Ah."

Another pause, punctuated by the heavy beat reverbating through the concrete floor. To Derek's growing dismay, with every unintentionally loaded question he asked, the candidate seemed to grow more and more tightly guarded, his musty brown coat wrapping into a defensive cocoon, his mouth hardening into a taut line across his jaw. He didn't made any effort to voice his discomfort, nor (Derek realized with an uneasy start) had relaxed atmosphere changed. They had been attempting to dance in slow, careful circles around each other, and somehow they had collided several times in a row. Broken teeth and abused solar plexuses (plexi?), and neither really at fault, and both far too polite to protest. And Derek didn't want that. For some strange, unfathomable reason, he wanted to like this particular hobo, and he might've had the slightest feeling that he wanted to be regarded, admired, maybe even liked. It was a strange, near overpowering urge in the sense that he never noticed it at all, like the quiet sound of running water.

No more J-word, Derek noted to himself after a few moments of awkward silence; then, retrieving the clipboard, he displayed a smile of his own in truce. "Right, moving on. How long have you been playing?"

"Since middle school. That'd be... what, eight years?"

"Wonderful. I'd assume you'd be concert violin, then?"

"Mostly."

"Sort of looking for a fiddler, man." Derek frowned. "Totally different sounds."

"I've been practicing both in my spare time." No smile. "I'm a fast learner, if there's something I don't know."

"Mmm. Taught yourself any other instruments?"

At first, it didn't seem like Derek was going to get a response. Then: "I could sing, if you like." The eyebrow arched again under filthy blond feathers; the eternal smile reappeared at the corner of Kaede's mouth.

"Whoa there," Derek laughed, relieved, "Don't get too excited, dude. Save it for the live audish."

"I'll have to practice, then. At least until the mirror stops cracking while I'm in the shower."

"Lame. First of all, what shower?"

"Hey, I try."

"That, you do." Derek looked back down the list. They'd blown through just about all of the interview. "So, assuming that you're male - you are, right?"

Kaede, with a laugh, nodded again.

"Just one last question, then."

"Go for it."

"Why," Derek started, and abandoning the board (screw the rules, he had notes), he leaned forward, hands folded, direct eye contact, with dramatic flair that he felt would make Captain Picard proud, "d'you want to play fiddle for a garage band that can't even get out of the garage?"

"Simple." Kaede pasted on his smirk full force. "I'll be making more than I do right now."

"Good answer." Unnerving, more like, Derek didn't add, an odd sinking feeling in his stomach even as he chuckled out loud. He couldn't help but pity the poor guy. Coming from a huge family, he couldn't even imagine being so utterly severed and abandoned from anyone he ever knew... ever. "Yeah, uh, well," he started, rising from the table, Kaede parroting his movements, "looks like you pass on my insane-o-meter, so I'll cordially invite you to the live on Saturday." He scribbled furiously on the bottom of the cover page, ripped it away, and handed the scrap to the violinist. "Come at four, yeah? You, uh... need a ride?"

Kaede studied the address briefly, then stuck it in a worn jean pocket. "No, it's not too far. I'll see you there," he added, leaning over with a long, skeletal hand outstretched to shake again.

"Yeah, see you." As Derek returned the shake, they locked eyes again, and for just a moment, he could see it again. The force of nuclear fission and the long, tortuous demise of the ice-caps, all bubbling with a vengeance just behind the thin paper mask molded into the form of his unwashed face. Then the smile, a blink, and the war field was locked behind happy bomb shelter doors of wheat-tinted hazel. Just a bit scary.

"You, um. Look like a meal wouldn't hurt you."

Derek, panicking, realized the words left his own lips. Of _course_ that would be his first reaction after being thoroughly spooked by something otherworldly, inexplicable. He suspected that something was very wrong with his subconscious. "There's a McDonald's nearby, if you don't have something to get to right away." There was logic behind that, he decided. Didn't want one of his potential candidates starving to death on him.

The sardonic smirk immediately smeared itself across Kaede's face. "Did you want that date after all?"

... _Little fucker_.

"Not on your life."

"I'll be fine." Kaede said, lacing the sentence with a sense of finality. He nodded in farewell and turned to go.

"Wait."

Twisting his torso to the side, hands in pockets, Kaede set his head at a tilt. "What?"

Derek had no idea what, actually. Nothing in mind as the seconds painstakingly ticked their way by. It just seemed extremely important that this skinny, sarcastic, girly, borderline hobo stayed in the room where he could keep an eye on him. That's what Kaede was like at first, when Derek looked back. A magician. An escape artist with one foot jamming the door open. Houdini in Converses. Finally, Derek managed, "What should I call you?"

Kaede paused for a moment, staring up at the ceiling stucco. "Well," he answered, "maybe that'd better wait until Saturday." A flash of teeth. "You might not see me again after then, after all." With a final wave over his shoulder, he left the door hanging open, letting in the pound of the bass and the chatter of a full, raging club.

Leaving Derek in the little concrete box, feeling as though he had missed the punchline of a massive personal joke, of which he was the butt. And, oddly enough, he didn't feel insulted at all.

---

Let's play pretend.

You're stuck with a shoe with just one speck of sand. Just one. Yes, this has a point to it, pay attention. Okay, one grain of sand, scratching at your feet. Not that bad, not even a chance of a blister. Then another. Then another. For every painful memory, a grain of sand. For every moment of joy, a grain of sand. For every tear on your face, another grain. For every smile, another grain. For every day the rain falls, another. For every day that the sun shines, another. Every bite of food you eat, every word you say, every breath you take, heart beat and skip, foot fall, awkward pause, every memory where you can remember exactly what her hair smelled like (which, coincidentally, would be all of them), every waking and dreaming moment under heaven, until your feet are as heavy as the earth's sorrow...

The point is, you would take off your shoes and run, right? I mean, any normal person would. Anyone normal. So, you get it. You know why. And... you wouldn't blame me for doing it. Right?

Right?

---

He did, however, feel vaguely insulted when, the next morning, Cass, leading a filthy, slightly malnourished hobo with a violin case under one arm into their garage studio, introduced the band to their newest fiddler. Some credit for all his hard work would have been nice.

* * *

Roses are red  
Violets are blue  
I will commit murder  
Over one word reviews 

Also, if you are in this fandom and you don't know who the main character of this fic is yet, um, read the scans/spoilers ho? 'Cause it's fairly obvious. Or not.

Next update is exactly when I feel like it. Considering this chapter was about a half year in the making, you'll have to wait for a while.


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